Heritage (The Slendervale Series Book 2)

by Sean Mannette

  “L-Listen, I have a wife of my own. I don’t see the need for a second!” Gillman followed the words with a snicker. Adam didn’t appreciate the joke. He stood straight, towering over Gillman, searching his face for any sign that might prove useful.

  “Say you did it.” Adam was unsure if the sinister whisper accompanying his voice was only in his head. He was unsure whether he felt more startled or emboldened by the addition. “Say you did it!” Gillman didn’t move, but the sweat traced a pattern down his face. “Say you took her!” When Gillman was silent, Adam searched the room with his eyes, jaw taut, the shake of his head uncontrollable.

  He saw himself reflected in Gillman’s eyes, plucking a solid silver globe off the desk, brandishing it above his head.

  “Say it,” the raucous hiss demanded, only a shred of Adam’s voice remaining.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” Gillman whimpered, slithering off the chair and onto his knees in front of him. Adam shook violently, his eyes rolled back with rage. “Stop this! It’s insane. I didn’t do anything, you’re crazy!” Gillman repeated this over and over, as though he was somehow willing it to be the truth.

  Crimson swam suddenly in Adam’s vision, a scarlet dance of insidious secrets.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Yellow police tape was placed on both ends of the block, but that didn’t stop casual passersby from craning their necks for a glimpse. There were others too, with sleek professional cameras and slim leather-bound notepads. Parasites. They fed off chaos and death like maggots, little different from the monsters they wrote about.

  Caputo hated reporters with a passion. He didn’t have to deal with them as frequently as most of his colleagues in homicide, but that made it all the more difficult when he was face to face with the blood-sucking leeches.

  Pulling the tape upward, he stooped beneath it, steadfastly ignoring the questions being shouted at him. His stomach growled anxiously. He had skipped lunch for this, which wasn’t something he ever did, if he could help it, but this was clearly not his week.

  He walked over to the body, casually flipping his badge to a uniformed cop who stood just inside the tape. He wanted this out of the way as soon as possible. Caputo was here on a hunch, a splinter of an idea, that had begun to blossom and take shape during the night.

  Caputo stopped short as he rounded one of the patrol cars. The body on the ground was scarcely recognizable as human. A bloody, fleshy pulp of a face protruded from the finely-tailored fabric of a men’s suit. Thick blood, growing darker with each passing moment, was both pooled directly beneath the body and splattered out in all directions.

  Suddenly Caputo was grateful he hadn’t eaten; the stagnant late summer air wasn’t forceful enough to blow away the stench of all the blood. He turned from the scene, momentarily afraid that he might lose what little was sitting in his stomach. He wasn’t used to scenes like this. When he encountered a body it was typically only a desiccated shell of someone long gone. This, with its startling freshness, was a new horror for him to behold.

  Caputo surveyed the scene with his back to what remained of the corpse. After finding what he sought, he strode over to where two men wearing ill-fitting dark suits were speaking with a distraught young blonde woman. He hung back behind the woman, eavesdropping on the conversation. If the officers questioning her noticed, they didn’t show it.

  “Sure, we’ve all had bad days,” one of the officers was saying in a sympathetic tone. “What do you mean by ‘jerk?’”

  “Well,” the woman sniffled, looking more in that moment like a little girl, “he was mean. Like a bully, you know. He told me to set an appointment for 3 PM, and that he would be here. He told me to only call back if Gill… If Mr. Gillman… If he canceled the appointment.”

  “What was discussed at the meeting?” The other officer asked, much more callously than his colleague.

  “He didn’t come. I told G- Mr. Gillman, and he called the Tower to complain.”

  “I’m sorry honey, I know you’ve been through a lot, but could you describe the other man, the one who you saw this morning?” The first officer asked in the same pitied tone he had been using.

  The girl– woman, Caputo corrected himself– sniffled again and nodded her head.

  “He d-didn’t have an appointment. I’m not supposed to set appointments that early. Gill told me to go to lunch, b-but it wasn’t even ten yet. He just walked right past me, into Gill’s office, and he sent me to lunch.”

  Caputo had heard all he needed to. He waddled his way over to another officer, this one uniformed and standing in front of the office building.

  “Any chance I could get a rundown?” He asked with no introduction. Half of getting anything done in his backwater department was the implication of authority. The cop nodded.

  “The deceased is one Albert James Gillman, of McMannon-Smith-Gillman. Also of the Heritage Group, and a few more like that. Busy guy.” The cop let out a low whistle in the direction of the body. Then, as if remembering, he shuddered before continuing. “The secretary was on lunch when it happened. I know how it sounds, but it checks out. There’s plenty of blood upstairs, too. It’s got Kel thinking this wasn’t a fall our victim took by himself.”

  Caputo mulled this over. It fit with what he suspected.

  “Where’s Kel?”

  Kel, or Detective Kellman, was in Gillman’s office. Although he was technically the same rank as Caputo, there was an informal hierarchy across the departments. Homicide was as sexy as it got. Missing persons, Caputo mused, was the ugly big sister, so he wasn’t surprised when he was greeted without any of the usual hospitality.

  “The shit is MP doing here?” An overly-gruff voice rounded the corner and hit Caputo like a wrecking ball. He couldn’t hear the resulting explanation, which was probably just as well. Then Kel rounded the corner, a barrel of a man, and jabbed a thick finger into Caputo’s chest.

  “I don’t see your name anywhere on this scene, or what the hell this has to do with missing persons.”

  “I think your guy might be connected to someone I’m currently looking at for a missing persons case.” Caputo tried to sound fierce in the intimidating man’s presence, but the end result was hardly convincing. Kel smiled like a mountain lion squaring up with a housecat.

  “The only thing Gillman was missing was the top half of his skull. This ain’t your party, pal.” He turned and started to walk back toward the office.

  Caputo flashed back to the sight of the pulpy, broken corpse, and grew pale. He shook his head rapidly, trying to clear it of the vision.

  “Adam Church,” Caputo called after the homicide detective.

  “What?” Kel demanded in his deep baritone from halfway down the hall. “Who the fuck is that?” He turned back to face Caputo, who nodded, retracing the connections in his head. He was confident.

  “He’s the guy who shook up that secretary out there. His wife is missing.” Kel shrugged, but he was still listening. “After she disappeared, he hooked up with the De La Poer crew.” He could see a shadow darken Kel’s face. The name wasn’t ever spoken above a whisper, not by anyone who valued keeping their badge.

  “You think he did this?” Kel was suddenly much more yielding. Caputo couldn’t take the time to appreciate it for long.

  “It doesn’t sit right with me. If it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck…” Kel nodded, thoughtfully. Caputo could almost imagine his tiny brain, nearly suffocated by his giant head, spitting out steam. “Oh, I almost forgot. My guy Church and De La Poer, they’re related, even before all this went down.” Caputo added, watching satisfied as Kel raised an eyebrow.

  “Related how?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Adam moved robotically, one step at a time. It was all he had to do. Just focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The black and white marble floor beneath him reflected his haggard expression. One foot after another. It had been a long day. He hadn’t slept. He just needed to k
eep walking, and keep his mind of moving forward. The day was too crazy, too surreal to believe. He would go up to his room, lie down, and go to sleep. Adam knew that when he woke up he would be back in his own house. He might make his wife breakfast. He smiled. He hadn’t made her breakfast in far too long. Perhaps never.

  For now, all he had to do was keep moving forward, keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  “Mr. Church?” A voice called out. No. That wouldn’t do at all. Adam had a job to do. He was walking. One foot in front of the other.

  “Mr. Church?” The voice repeated with increasing concern. Adam kept his gaze on the reflective marble, refusing to be distracted from his mission. “Mr. Church, Mr. De La Poer is waiting in his office for your report. He’s been waiting all morning.” That was enough to make Adam look up.

  It was the front desk clerk. He was– miraculously– awake. The expression Renfield wore was a mix between worry and downright fear. It was upsetting to Adam. The dwarf knew; Adam didn’t know how, but he was certain the dwarf knew.

  Before that line of thought could reach someplace darker and more terrible, Adam fumbled out a response.

  “Thanks.” There. Nice and casual. He paused to congratulate himself before returning to the task at hand. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other.

  “Now Lily already gave me her version of events,” Francis nodded his head in her direction, “but I’d like to hear what happened from you. In your own words.”

  How had he gotten there? Adam had no memory of the journey to where he now stood at the top of the Tower. It was Francis' office. Familiar. Safe. No one was going to be able to get to him up here. They’d have better luck trying to get to the President himself. He was safe.

  Adam kept repeating it to himself, a mantra to seal away thoughts too dark to mention. If he thought it enough, he felt it was sure to be true.

  “Adam?” Francis asked, moving from his perpetual post by the window. Concern laced his voice as he studied his lieutenant.

  Adam’s instincts screamed at him to do something, anything, to thwart that gaze. He wanted to run, to hide as far away as he possibly could. He had very nearly done so. But he couldn’t go home. He couldn’t wander aimlessly. He had come to the place they wouldn’t find him.

  Adam interrupted his own train of thought. Francis was waiting for an answer, some kind of report. Adam didn’t know what to say, what version of events would somehow answer Francis’ question and at the same time keep him safely in the dark.

  “He wasn’t there.” Adam choked out, either unable or unwilling to meet Francis’ eye.

  “Who wasn’t there, Adam? Jake?” Francis sounded legitimately confused.

  Jake? Who was Jake? Was Jake the one who did those terrible things? Adam reeled back, trying to anchor his thoughts on something, anything else. Jake. Recognition spawned in his mind. Jake the football douche, of course. From the derelict building.

  “It’s a shithole.” Adam muttered, finally latching on to something. “Total shithole.”

  Francis rocked his head back at Adam’s words. Suddenly Lily was there, crouching low to meet Adam’s gaze.

  “Adam, are you feeling alright?” She asked, her voice laden with concern. It was feigned, Adam was sure. That bitch was eagerly awaiting his downfall, he knew. She was practically glowing.

  Suddenly the phone on Francis’ desk was ringing. Lily was occupied with trying to meet Adam’s constantly shifting gaze. A look of fake sympathy was etched on her hateful parody of a face. Francis picked up the phone and listened. Adam knew what was being said. The words came to him as clearly as if he were on the line himself. Maybe he was psychic. He almost smiled at that. The bitch was starting to get to him more than he cared to admit. She was still circling, cooing soothingly, like a vulture.

  “Lily, give us a minute.” Lily finally wrenched her gaze away from Adam. Good riddance. Maybe she would be the next one.

  “I don’t know that’s a good idea right now.” When Adam heard her softly questioning voice he wondered how she could make it sound that way through her vulture beak. Maybe he could put her in the circus when he was done with her.

  “Lily. Out.” Francis took a firm, no-nonsense tone. Adam nodded to himself. You have to show them who’s boss, or they’ll just shit all over the carpet. It was the same way with dogs; he had had one when he was a child. Adam had spoiled that dog rotten, and gotten bitten for it. If his mother was right about one thing, it was the proper way to discipline one’s natural inferiors.

  “Adam.” Francis' words were calling him back to the present. He couldn’t see Lily. She probably flew away, he knew. Well, Francis De La Poer could talk all he liked, but that didn’t mean Adam had to listen. People talked all the time when he wasn’t listening, Adam reasoned to himself. Most people, actually, had most of their conversations without him ever knowing about it. What could they be talking about? Adam wondered. He didn’t know, but had a mild certainty it was probably about him.

  “Adam, Albert Gillman is dead.” Francis' tone was flat. Adam wasn’t sure, but he imagined there was a question in there somewhere. He didn’t know the answer, although the hand currently wrapped tightly in his suit jacket spasmed. “Tragic. Just tragic.” Francis muttered, more to himself than to Adam. It was the first sign of insanity, after all, people talking to themselves. That’s what Adam had heard anyway. All this nonsense about magic daggers and witches was clearly pointing in that direction. Maybe Francis would let him run the show once he was put away.

  Adam’s musings were interrupted several moments later, when Francis gave a low chuckle.

  “I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth!” His voice was elated, triumphant. Good for him. It should be a good day for everyone. Today was the day Adam was reunited with his wife, of that he had no doubt. He was magnanimous, though, and would happily allow others to enjoy this day as well. Then, promptly, Adam vomited all over Francis’ gorgeous handwoven red carpet. Suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet him. It was coming up slowly, and Adam didn’t feel any immediate need to stop it. He did feel a mild pang in his chest as he realized that the particular section of carpet that was coming to greet him he had just soiled. That probably wasn’t very sanitary.

  As Adam fell face-first into his own sickness, the world went mercifully black around him. Adam’s last thought, as he drifted out of consciousness, was that it would be rather inopportune if Francis decided to clean him up. It would be terribly embarrassing if he were to remove his jacket and see all that was beneath.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Light stung Adam’s eyes. There was something hard, yet very soft at the same time, holding him aloft. He found himself staring down at swirls of different shades of red. A carpet, close to a foot below. Adam tried to lift his head, but it was stuck like glue. He wondered idly if it was karma. He had once had the sadistic pleasure of gluing several friends’ faces to the floor one summer when he was young. They had been awake all night, drinking, and he had been the last man standing. They had been weak, it was right to humiliate them. They had also apparently not forgotten, and had finally come back for their revenge.

  Adam tried to lift his head again. It came free with a sickening sound. He glanced down to where it had lain. Leather. Well, that explained it.

  “Easy there sport.” A voice called out. It was strong, protective. It was the kind of voice Adam had always imagined when he felt afraid. He wasn’t afraid now, oddly enough. Where was it coming from?

  “When was the last time you ate something?” The voice sounded again. It was coming from a man, a bald man. Francis. Adam’s boss. Rosy light silhouetted him, making him look divine. An angel, Adam thought.

  “I don’t know. Yesterday, I think?” Adam responded. He was dully surprised by just how terrible the inside of his mouth tasted. He could tell, by the look on Francis' face as he crouched down to check on Adam, that it must have been as bad as he thought.

  “Two d
ays ago.” Francis corrected, a look of grave concern on his features. “You’ve been asleep for nearly a day.”

  Adam was embarrassed. He was still, from what he could see faintly as he propped himself on his elbows, up on the couch in Francis’ office. He looked down at his chest, clad only in his undershirt. Suddenly, an alarming thought occurred to him.

  “My jacket!” Adam exclaimed. It was incredibly important to him. He wasn’t a wealthy man, and it would cost more than he had saved to replace. “What did you do with it?” His tone turned accusing. Francis De La Poer was not Adam Church– of that, Adam was vaguely certain– which meant that he was not to be trusted.

  “It’s okay,” Francis was whispering in soothing tones, the way one might talk to a frightened horse. Adam was not, he was sure, a horse. “It was stained. It’s impossible to get that much blood out.”

  Adam realized that his dress shirt was missing, too; he was clad only in his undershirt and slacks. Bile rose up from his stomach, threatening to overwhelm Francis’ carpet once more. It was expensive, Adam repeated to himself. I need the nice jacket back. My wife will kill me if we have to replace it. I need it back.

  “It’s okay, Adam.” Francis said softly. Adam hadn’t realized he’d been speaking out loud. That could be a bad habit to get into.

  “It really could be.” Francis responded once more to his thoughts. He must have been some kind of mind reader. “I’ll get you a new suit. A whole new wardrobe, don’t worry about it. I burned the jacket, Adam. You cut your hand pretty badly. It had to be done.” Francis’ voice was soothing, but there was a tremble of excitement too, from what Adam could tell. And something else. Fear?

  “You burned it?” Adam asked, incredulous. The jacket was gone! Francis nodded.